


The Last of her Name

by cortchuzska



Series: Maiden Names [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:23:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may be that the gods have a taste for cruel japes. Or perhaps there are no gods. Perhaps none of this had any meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last of her Name

Rain sheets lashed Dragonstone distorted gargoyles, poured on its black walls, and muddled the churning sea below. The shared gloom of stone, sky and sea, that the storm seemed to join with surging waters in the same darkness, were as sombre as Rhaella's thoughts.

Foes and friends alike – were there any left – hated the Mad King and in turn accounted him responsible for the war and her House ruin; but her fear of him had morphed into pity, and nothing else she could feel for her disgraced brother.

Rhaella had suffered her marriage, and her husband, and his madness, because of a prophecy, because of a hope, because of a dream. The King had been slain. Rhaegar had married Elia, even if she was too sickly, for she had Valyrian blood in her, to fulfil another. Their children had been butchered. Rhaegar had hoped in Lyanna, and torn the Seven Kingdoms apart for her; and because of that, the Prince had been defeated and killed, King's Landing had fallen, and their House was now crushed forever. Lyanna had died in childbirth, and her son with her – if not, the Usurper would see to it. The Targaryens overthrown and utterly undone; her own children – the prince who was promised was to be born of her line – had no longer a reign, a House, nor a family, not even parents who could care for them. She knew she was dying; and the only thing she would leave them was a useless crown. They would likely be killed as well, as soon as Dragonstone was taken, or shortly after, if they ever managed to flee to the Free Cities, teeming with sellswords for hire.

A fork of lightning flashed trough the shuttered windows, and blazed into her closed eyes.

She had birthed a princess, the one so desperately longed for, the destined bride to Rhaegar; a brother she would never know, as she would never know her parents, her throne, her kingdom.

All, and always, to no avail; because prophecy, hopes and dreams had failed her, and felled any future for her house. If Rhaegar was indeed him who was promised, his promise was doom. Rhaella's clammy hands were clenching her crown so tightly her knuckles had turned white. A choked laughter rose from deep within her chest and racked her with piercing pain.

_For a moment, she had deluded herself, and thought everything was for the best._

She was the lucky one of the three friends of old, the only one who would at last see their girlhood dreams come true: their children happily reunited around the Iron Throne, Rhaegar as king, Elia his queen, and Jaime in the Kingsguard, and even his vows were a marriage of sort, since he would never form a family of his own, but was bound for life to the royal one he was sworn to protect. Elia was the daughter she never had, and the Targaryens made small difference between a daughter and a good-daughter; as for Jaime – not Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard, but Joanna's boy: a squalling babe with a golden fluff nestled in her arms, swathed in Lannister crimson, – his mother had died when he was but a child, so he could scarcely remember her, and he was so young it felt natural to Rhaella to act almost as a mother to him.

_In that very moment, everything went awry, and the dreams they had woven unravelled._

She had pitied Ashara, who had seen her sons die; she had pitied Joanna, who could never see her children grow tall; now she shared both their fates, though none of them had seen her House destroyed. She was the last Targaryen, the last who could still remember, and fully understand what it really meant being one: to Vyseris, it would be a dim childhood recollection; Danaerys – the name she had chosen for her daughter echoed of Dorne, she could not say if as amends, homage, or plea; though it was the only thing she could do for Elia, and she would do it - would never know.

She could see it clearly now, through their dreams of dragons. The Targaryens had always been playthings to ruthless gods, the shadow of Summerhall but a reminder of the Doom of Valyria they deluded escaping from, the Iron Throne a jape. Prophecy had gnawed heart and marrow of the best of them, their hopes and their achievements were only their wires, and Aegon's conquest a puppeteer's farce.

They had reaped a full crop; but what it yielded was already spoiled by vermin.

Cruelties, foolishness and good deeds were equally futile. The Stranger's unreadable countenance – him of the many faces – hid a cruel rictus that shifted into a mocking smirk and became an understanding and forgiving smile.

The crown rattled to the ground. No one heard its ringing sound in the ravaging storm.


End file.
